Tanks and the World of Tanks
by Happypuppyeldrichmadness
Summary: Tanks are romantic and sensitive.
1. Chapter 1

Tiger I was in a fine mood. He had a fancy new coat of zimmerit, freshy repainted iron crosses and a squeaky feeling in his tracks from the bubble bath he'd just gotten out of.

"Oh, truly this is a joyous day! Not only are the birds singing and the sun shining, but today is the day that I shall ask IS-2 to the tank prom!"

Tiger I's inadequate and easily ignited petrol motor nearly knocked when he thought of IS-2. IS-2 was so sleek and sexy with her feminine, ballistically optimized frontal armor and turret. She was so fast, she had such a low silhouette, she had dainty, field-maintainable road wheels. She had it all, and he would make her his.

Yes! For the glory of National Socialism! IS-2 would be his! He would incorporate her into his lebensraum, if you know what I mean. Or whatever it is that National Socialists are supposed to do at tank proms.

Verily! Tiger I felt a shiver of boldness that resonated all the way down the superfluous drive shaft that went from his rear hull, under the fighting compartment to his front drive sprocket when he thought about how he would wow IS-2 with his boldness. He was feeling suave, in touch with the ground, on the hunt. He could feel the hunger building up in him… hungry like… hungry like… hungry like the tiger! That was it!

And there she was! IS-2 rounded the corner! Tiger I could see the sunlight play off the textured surface of her cast frontal armor, and smell the sweet aroma of her diesel engine. The moment of truth!

"Uh, hey there IS-2, I was wondering if maybe you… you know, might, sometime want to, kinda…" Tiger I trailed off as his engine began to overheat.

"No." said IS-2.

"What?" Gasped Tiger I surprise.

"If you are asking me to tank prom, answer is no! Same as last time you asked, silly pudgy brick tank!" Replied IS-2 curtly in her charming, lilting Slavic accent.

Tiger I, lacking any sense of humor or indeed any redeeming qualities whatsoever immediately got into a huff.

"I AM THE LEGEND OF THE PANZERWAFFE! IT EVEN SAYS SO IN MY IN-GAME DESCRIPTION! WHY WON'T YOU GO OUT WITH MEEEEEE?" He screeched in such a way that inspired pity-tinged disgust. He paused to wheeze, as his low power-to-weight-ratio tended to leave him panting whenever he exerted himself.

"I HAVE THE FUCKING LEGENDARY HIGH-VELOCITY 88mm FLAK GUN! I AM IMPENETRABLE TO ALLIED ANTI-TANK WEAPONS! I CAN DESTROY SHERMANS FROM KILOMETERS AWAY! I HAVE ADVANCED GERMAN OPTICS! AMERICAN TANKERS QUAKE IN FEAR AT MY NAME!" Tiger I was by this point jiggling like a fat kid to Moldovan disco.

"Oh Tiger," IS-2 giggled a little, "KwK 36 isn't that fast. In fact, using standard anti-tank ammo only has ten meters per second, or 1.25% more muzzle velocity than own 122mm cannon! And don't tell me skinnier shells giving better penetration. 122mm armor piercing high explosive and armor piercing high explosive ballistic capped shells have 27% higher sectional density than your puny over-rated 88mm APCBC shells, in addition to having twenty-four percent more kinetic energy per square meter of contact as well as one hundred forty percent more kinetic energy overall! You are puny and impotent compared to me, and I am woman! Yes, your armor hard to penetrate… to people armed with 57mm and 76mm anti-tank guns in 1942. You're just flat, slab-sided brute force machine, not sexy, mass-producible instrument of proletariat will! Only people who like you are history buffs or people who smell of cat food and pay far too much money for reproduction SS daggers and lorcin pistols to help them in coming race wars. Oh, and my optics are copies of yours and therefore just as good. "

Tiger I began to cry. It started out as a whimper, but soon it was a heaving, convulsive wailing that shook Tiger I to his very torsion bars. Sebaceous fat-kid tears rolled down his gun mantlet. He burbled and incoherent stream of imprecations, desperate compromises and pleading to IS-2, the beautiful tank that would always be too good for him.

"There there, Tiger I. I'm sure you will find date to tank prom soon! I hear that M6 Heavy does not have date yet."

"Ugh," retched Tiger I, nearly dry heaving after his previous display, "but M6 Heavy is fat, ugly and useless!"

"Like I said, right date to tank prom!"

And with that IS-2 bounced off to go on a date with T29, a big, broad-shouldered American heavy whose very glance sent her into paroxysms of girlish tittering. This left Tiger I all alone to contemplate his wretchedness.

Tiger I was all alone in the world and he would never get the love he wanted. He was slow, ugly, undergunned, under armored and overcomplicated. He was a loser. He decided he would end it all and drive off a cliff.

Tiger I accelerated to his lumbering 30 KPH flank speed and tried to drive off the cliff. He closed his eyes for the moment of suspension, followed by sweet, sweet release from this earthly vale of tears. But cruel fate! It was still the 7.1 patch, and physics hadn't been implemented yet, so he came to an abrupt halt as he hit the invisible wall at the edge of the cliff.

Tiger I was left all alone. He spent the entire week moping at the edge of the cliff, thinking about how horrible and useless he was. He forgot all about the tank prom. Nobody came to look for him because Tiger I had no friends. In time he became one of those dark spots on the tech tree that you just free XP past. A few German armor apologists would make increasingly implausible arguments that the game was systematically biased towards Russian tanks, but in time these poor fools became just as ignored, unloved and forgotten as Tiger I.

And that ends the sad, but quite predictable tale of Tiger I. The moral of this story is don't be a crappy, poorly designed piece of junk, because RUSSIA STRONG!1111


	2. Chapter 2

FV4202 was enjoying the fine summer day just before the summer solstice. It was said that on the day of the solstice this year, or close enough, the developers would add the 8.6 update. She was quite excited about a number of the changes, such as arty getting righteously nerfed into the ground, reduction of tier ten penetration and new HEAT and spaced armor mechanics.

As she pondered why there would be new HEAT mechanics but not new HESH mechanics, she caught sight of the dull glimmer of zimmerit and interleaved road wheels. Panther and a bunch of his friends were playing tank football!

FV4202 dashed over at her disappointingly low top speed of 40 KPH. T110E5 was there, and so was AMX-50B, and even Leo 1 and T-62A!

"Wotcher mates," FV4202 was British, after all, "Can ye squeeze me in for a bit of the footie?"

None of the tanks playing tank football, which incidentally is an extremely dangerous game, even turned their turrets to acknowledge her.

"Hey now," she said, now speaking in American, or actual English, "I know you heard me! Just slot me in when you're done with the next play."

There was not a sound, aside from the incredibly loud sounds of squeaking running gear, throttles being opened to the firewalls, and cannon fire.

FV4202 was frozen with terror and confusion. Why were all of these fellow tanks ignoring her?

Eventually the game hit a lull and panther came over to her.

"Look FV4202, you can't just stay there all day!"

FV4202 brightened up. So they were just engrossed in their game and not deliberately shunning her!

"Oh, where do you want me to join in?" Asked FV4202 brightly.

"What? No! Not that!" Said Panther in tones of utmost disgust. "You have to go. You can't stick around here. You're not a real tank!"

"Wha? What?" FV4202 didn't understand.

"Tank football is only for real tanks. You're not a real tank! Look, I shouldn't even be seen talking to you this much in case your fake-ness rubs off on me. Get going!"

"But-" FV4202 appealed to the other tanks mulling around the field, "I am too a real tank! There's at least a prototype or two of me lying around! That's more than you can say for T100E5!"

There was muted, cruel laughter.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Said Leo1. "We don't care if you're mass-produced or a one-off prototype or a napkin drawing that Wargaming wildly extrapolated. All that matters; the only thing that makes a tank real or not is if it has torsion bars."

"Wha-"

"Isn't that right?" Asked Leo 1.

"Oh yeah, gotta have torsion bars!" Said AMX-50B, "You're not a real tank without torsion bars."

"I have *two sets* of torsion bars," explained Panther with no small amount of pride, "that's why they made me quarterback."

"I love having torsion bars!" Said IS-7, who in truth only had half-length torsion bars, so the tank football team technically had to accept her, even though they obviously ostracized her and tormented her with cruel hazing that would never end in acceptance. "I like hanging out with these tanks who are mean to me more than hanging out with losers, because they all have torsion bars!"

"Torsion bars are the best. Anyone who doesn't have torsion bars should just pull an Ophelia and drive off a cliff and drown themselves!" Said T-62A.

"WWHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE E!" Said T-50-2, running by and leaving a thin blue smoke that stank of high-cetane diesel fuel and cocaine.

"I tanked for Sam and was paided a bonus! Stay away from them conre durgs!" Said M60.

"So it's agreed," said Panther, "you don't have torsion bars, you're not a real tank. Hell, you don't even have independently suspended road wheels! Face it, you're a no good, worthless loser. And losers are only good at getting lost, so make like a loser and lose yourself!" Panther was very pleased with his cleverness.

The tanks resumed their game of tank football, and FV4202 slunk away, becoming despondent. FV4202 was completely consumed with despair. Indeed, it was so bad that no other tank could empathize, since FV4202 had more capacity for depression than any other tier ten tank.

She was so wrapped up in her world of sadness that she almost bumped into T-34.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" Shouted T-34, jerkily turning about on clutch-and-brake steering. "We ain't on a platoon, so you very nearly owed me team damage penalties!"

"I'm sorry," said FV4202, "I'm just so sad because I'm not a real tank."

"You look like a real tank to me," said T-34, "although that could be my poor view range speaking."

FV4202 broke out in tears and blubbering. "Bu-but all the tanks playing tank football said I wasn't a real tank because I don't have torsion bars and it's true I don't even have independent roadwheel suspension! I'm such a fraud! I hate myself! Why was I made this waaaayyy?"

"There there," said T-34, "I don't have torsion bar suspension either. In fact, a lot of good tanks don't have torsion bar suspension!"

"R-really?" Asked FV4202.

"That's right missy," said E-100, who had come over to see what was wrong. "I don't have any torsion bars holding me up, unless you count coil springs to be a type of torsion spring, but we won't for sake of argument."

"And you won't find a single torsion bar anywhere in all of my 200 tonnes!" Said Maus, E-100's friend who had also come to see what the fuss was about. "Well, unless you count the ones that help the crew hatches open. I suppose those totally are torsion bars."

Soon an enormous crowd of tanks who didn't have torsion bar suspension had crowded around FV4202. FV4202 felt extremely accepted and validated and happy. Soon she was half-fighting off the advances of Batignolles Chatillon 25T, a charming and very quick fellow with hydropneumatic suspension.

"Awww, thanks guys," said FV4202, "I guess you don't need torsion bars to be a real great tank!"

"Yeah, just speed, turret armor and a gold round that doesn't suck!" Said E-50M.

Before they could stop themselves, all the other tanks laughed, and FV4202 burst into tears again.


End file.
